


right now there's a war between the vanities

by Mira_Jade



Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Black Panther (2018), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Family Bonding, Family of Choice, Ficlet Collection, Flash Fiction, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-06-23 20:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15614640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: Moments, before and after infinity. A collection of flash fiction.Next Up: Pepper/Tony -Save the date.





	1. so come home (Natasha & Clint & Laura)

She couldn’t stay away, not for this. (Never for this.) Ignoring the risks – the eyes on the Barton family farm and the agents who’d no doubt leap at the chance to bring the infamous Black Widow in, she raced across the fields and used the waterspout to easily swing herself up and onto the roof. There, she found the unlocked window on the second floor and let herself inside. Silently, she slipped around the squeaking spots in the hardwood floor, and made her way down the hall, until -  
  
Clint and Laura were sleeping when she let herself into their room. Sleeping, but not for long.  
  
“Nat, is that you?” it was Laura’s groggy voice who first caught on in the dark. Worry warred for relief in her tone, audibly so, but she automatically shifted to create a small space between her and Clint. “Nat, if they catch you - ”  
  
“ - they won’t catch her,” was Clint’s simple assurance as he sat upright. Even without a light to see by, his eyes were knowingly sharp as he studied her. “You look like hell, Nat,” was his greeting – the first words traded between them in months. They hadn't spoken since he took his plea bargain with the Feds and the German government. “When’s the last time you slept?”  
  
_Not since here_ , she wanted to answer, long before the Accords. She hadn’t had a truly restful night’s sleep since their entire team took refuge in this _home_ and she wound herself like a vine around Bruce in the guestroom and allowed herself to imagine that maybe, just _maybe_ -  
  
But that was a very long time ago.  
  
So, she ignored his question and instead muttered, “Happy anniversary, you guys.” Always certain of her place, like a child taking refuge after a nightmare, she crawled up the bed to burrow between the couple. There, she finally allowed herself to slump, boneless against the pillows. Eleven years ago, now, they’d allowed her into their family and into their hearts; it was the only day of the year she honored. Here, where even her work with SHIELD couldn’t break her chains, she’d chucked the yoke of the Red Room and forged herself into she _herself,_ into _Natasha the woman_ rather than _Natalia Romanova the weapon_. Here, she wasn't formed in a test tube and grown in a lab and molded and sculpted and in return _expected_ -  
  
\- but she wouldn't think about that just then. Not on today of all days; not with _them_.  
  
“Don’t worry,” she added, her eyes already heavy with sleep. Her accent only came out in tired, unguarded moments, and it was thick then. “I’ll be gone before the kids wake up.”  
  
“We don't have to think about that just yet,” Laura sighed, and laid back down again. Her hand was comforting as it came to rest on her shoulder. She traced nonsense patterns against the fabric of her sleeve, and Natasha squeezed her eyes closed to better register the sensation. She couldn't remember the last time someone had touched her in affection. “You know they’d love to see you if they could. They . . . they miss you.” _We miss you_ , she heard as Laura swallowed.  
  
“Just sleep,” Clint added, settling in for the night again with a sigh. As soon as he was comfortable, she turned on her side to hide her face in his chest, while Laura moved to press in comfortingly close against her back. His arms were wide enough to wrap around both his partner and his wife, causing the lump in her throat to grow. “We’ll figure everything else out in the morning.”  
  
“And happy anniversary, Nat,” Laura muttered after a long, drowsy moment passed. “I’m glad you came back for this.” _For us._ Briefly, Natasha felt as Clint’s arms flexed.  
  
And there, nestled safe and content between them, Natasha finally allowed herself to rest.


	2. with both hands (Hope & Janet)

The Pym family kitchen hadn’t smelled this good in . . . well, Hope couldn’t remember how long. It’d been years since the last time the oven was turned on for frozen food, even, let alone used for a creative purpose. Her father most definitely Did Not Cook, and she – well, the aroma of spices and the feel of kneading bread and the taste of sweet baked concoctions had always been her mother’s domain. After her loss, there was never much of a reason to go into the kitchen again.  
  
Yet, _now_ . . .  
  
Now, her mother was back and folding herself into their lives (almost) as easily as if they’d never been apart. The entire house smelled like crystallized brown sugar and warm butter and melting chocolate. It was a scent straight from her memories, stinging at her eyes as she walked through the door and followed her nose to the kitchen. There, with the same critical gaze that first theorized how to explore the infinitesimal and peer between molecules, Janet inspected her first batch of cookies - all the while remaining aware enough to bat Scott’s hand away from the waiting bowl of raw cookie dough and banter with her husband: “This _is_ science, Henry. It’s chemistry of the best sort! Don’t worry, there’ll be time enough to lose ourselves in the lab again, be patient.” To which her father actually _pouted_ in reply, like a _child._ (Since having her mother back, she was learning a side of her father that she never knew existed before. Sometimes, he reminded her of Scott in a bizarre way – which she certainly _did not_ want to think about just then, or at all, really.)  
  
“Hope!” Scott happily bounced from foot to foot when he saw her. As always, his good cheer was contagious; his smile had an unfortunate way of twisting at her heart and refusing to let go. “Your mom is the _best_ and I want her to be my mom too and I’m _so glad_ we got her back.” As he gushed, he took a too-hot cookie from the baking sheet, even though it singed his fingers and then his mouth when he decided to eat it anyway. Yelping, he reached for his glass of milk, and gulped the drink down to nullify the burn of the still bubbling chocolate. Janet sighed for his antics, but clearly already understood that there was only so far her words could go. The rest, Scott would have to figure out on his own.  
  
“It smells amazing,” Hope's voice was smaller than she intended as she met her mother’s eyes with a hesitant smile. Janet’s cheeks flushed, and she tucked a silver-blond lock of hair behind her ear with an expression that was almost bashful - that was, if she didn’t know her mother any better. Because this was _her mother,_ who was so strong and poised and graceful in everything she did. There was no way that she could have felt as overwhelmed as Hope certainly did.  
  
“These were your favorites once – but that was thirty years ago,” somewhat sheepishly, Janet met her eyes to explain. “I don’t know if that's changed . . . but I was hoping they still would be.”  
  
The words caught at something deep within her. They sounded like from a dream - a beautiful, _perfect_ dream, but a dream, nonetheless. Hope wasn’t used to the universe giving things back to her, but this – _this_ , she’d take and hold onto tight with both hands. She refused to let it go.  
  
“No,” she took a cookie from the tray and assured her mother – her _mother,_ holding her eyes all the while, “they’re even better than I remember.”


	3. put back together again (Shuri & Bucky & Steve)

The Winter Soldier was an example of science brutally employed by those who would do harm, rather than used to improve and _create_. His mind was a wreckage of broken stems, his body a mess of missed fuses and crudely forged steel. The work that was done – _inflicted, tortured_ \- was cheap. Amateurish. Sloppy. _Horrifying,_ in every way _._  
  
Shuri felt both pity and curiosity, looking down at the pasty broken man on her table - the project her brother had brought back from Europe in place of their father. _Heal him, sister,_ T’Challa had bid her, his head bowed as if under the weight of his theoretical crown. _He too was a victim in all_ _of this, just as Baba was._  
  
For a moment, she almost didn’t know where to begin. But, only for a moment.  
  
“Tell me something about Sergeant Barnes,” she welcomed the man hunched by his bedside to explain. The once bold colors of his uniform were torn and muted, no matter that they had offered him fresh, clean clothes in a gesture of hospitality. He had yet to sleep for anything more than fractured moments, and coarse blonde stubble now carpeted his cheeks and chin. He looked like a young lion, Shuri thought fleetingly, yet incapable of growing a full mane. Soon, he would smell like a warthog, though, if he didn't take a moment for himself. “I want to know who I am trying to bring back.”  
  
“He . . . honestly, I don’t think I know anymore,” Steve Rogers answered. His voice was soft, and worn. “I . . . I know who Bucky _was,_ but that was a long time ago. A lifetime, really.”  
  
“Tell me about _your_ Bucky, then,” she applied her mind to the puzzle. “I want to know.”  
  
And so, slowly but surely, the Captain began to speak. That night, he finally put aside his uniform for a soft, wool kaftan and allowed himself to eat a fully, hearty meal. He took his first night’s rest even as Shuri worked tirelessly through the dawn, her mind whirling and her own grief put aside for this: for purpose and service, just as her father would have wanted her to do.  
  
Months later, when his mind was stripped of his captors and they worked through his triggers and his programming and his _chains_ , Bucky met her eyes, and frowned as if seeing her for the first time, all over again. Outside his small hut by the water, tending to his goats while the local children tried to catch a glimpse of the _white wolf_ , she thought that she knew him better than anyone else ever had. Or, at least, she knew who he was reforging himself to be.  
  
“Why did you help me, Princess?” Bucky finally asked the question that he’d been swallowing for nearly a year. She’d watch him burn his tongue with it over and over again. “Without someone looking to use me as a pawn – a _weapon_ , your father would still be alive. I didn’t – I _don’t_ deserve . . . ” but he swallowed that ember again, and could not finish.  
  
So.  
  
“Because you deserve to dance again, James,” she answered simply, remembering Steve’s words from that first night. She was ever an artist who painted with a vision in mind. “Maybe, when you’re ready,” her teeth flashed, “you can show me what’s so wonderful about baseball, too.”  
  
“Well then . . . yes, ma’am, I suppose I could,” he ducked his head to say, looking back down at his goats to hide his blush. “Whatever you want.”  
  
And this, Shuri wanted very much indeed.


	4. as you stand (Gamora & Loki)

That day, the Children plucked a god out from amongst the stars.  
  
The man was falling when they found him - not even trying to flail as he plunged through the cosmos, instead only strangely accepting of his fate and seemingly uncaring of wherever it was he landed. (He’d care soon enough, she knew – oh she knew.) When Gamora asked his name, he gave a grimace to return, “Does it matter?” He was shaky on his feet, as if he’d not walked on solid ground in quite some time.  
  
Gamora had little patience for flippancy – and Thanos even less so. It didn’t matter that she had no answers to give Father; eventually, he’d find out what he wanted. “An Aesir,” she introduced, pushing hard on the man’s shoulder so that he fell to one knee. Oddly, he winced at her words more so than her treatment. Her brow furrowed, but she refused to indulge her moment’s wondering for overly long. She didn't think beyond what Thanos commanded (except for that little, distant spark in her mind; an ember slowly burning) and she wouldn’t start now, for  _him_.  
  
“You are far from Odin’s halls, seiðrmanðr,” Thanos rumbled, curiosity glittering in the pits of his eyes. (Gamora sucked in a breath, and held it.) “The First Realm is quite a ways to fall.”  
  
“Well, Asgard is terribly dull this time of year,” the man had no apparent regard for the danger of his predicament. “I took the fastest way out available to me. Though,” he flicked impossibly green eyes over the sparse grandeur of Thanos’ court, “I can’t say how much of an improvement this is.”  
  
Corvus was the Son to step forward and strike the Aesir with the back of his armored hand. The seiðrmanðr - the  _sorcerer_ , she inferred - spat out scarlet, and flashed his teeth in a humorless grin. It was only the first time he bled in their care, but the last time he smiled. Gamora, thankfully, was too highly ranked amongst her siblings for such mindless savagery, and she only met their guest again later, much later – after he’d finally reached some sort of an accord with Thanos. Father, after all, always got what he wanted. (And  _this,_  he wanted very much indeed.)  
  
The Aesir’s name was Loki, they’d learned at the tip of Nebula’s blade, and he was, above all else, a thorn in Gamora’s side.  
  
There, waiting in the antechamber for the Other to admit them, Loki sat cross-legged on the floor. His stance was deceptively careless, but years of telling out weakness in her opponents let Gamora see every pain he was trying to hide. His eyes, she thought without pity, had lost their verdant gleam. Flesh and blood would heal in time, yet other wounds were slower to mend. That, she well knew.  
  
But he snapped his fingers to summon a long silver flute from some shadowed pocket of space-time –  _magic,_  Gamora had no taste for – and started to play, at first hesitantly and then with growing confidence. She felt her spine stiffen as the soft notes of liquid velvet rolled over her ears like a memory, before -  
  
\- two long strides took her forward, and she plucked the flute from his hands without a word said aloud. Her blood surged to roar in her ears.  
  
“I don’t know about your people, Titan’s Daughter,” Loki sniffed to say, “but  _please_  and  _thank-you_  go a long way amongst my own _.”_  
  
She snapped her eyes to meet his gaze. “Where did you get this?” she demanded.  
  
“A planet called Zen-Whoberi, some ways from here. It’s a forgotten world of little consequence, now,” his words were a study in nonchalance, but she thought that he knew  _exactly_  what he said and to  _whom_. “A pity, what happened there – the Zehoberei people used to have some of the best musicians in the galaxy. Odin invited their pipers to court once, centuries ago. I was . . . better at making friends than Thor was, with a troupe of artisans. They were pacifists, with no interest in martial skill, and thus  _dull_ to his eyes . . . but their songs were lovely. When I asked, one taught me how to play.”  
  
Thanos’ scourge had taken every last one of her people’s musicians, Gamora knew with a shiver – a thought she’d not allowed herself to consider in many, many years. Her father, her  _real_  father, even -  
  
. . . but no.  _No._  
  
“You can keep it, if you want,” a flicker of green seemingly returned to Loki’s eyes. “I have memories enough to suffice.”  
  
Gamora drew back to her full height, and sneered down at him. The flute remained clutched in her hand. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
“It seemed only fitting, before I go out  _conquering_  in the name of Thanos, to remember all who have disappeared by his hand.” There, his mouth thinned in distaste. “You know what he will do if I succeed, after all, don’t you?”  
  
There was . . .  _something_  about his words she didn’t like.  _Silver-tongue_ and  _trickster_  his own people called him; they were not faith strengthening appellations in the slightest. “You’d best make sure you fulfill your vow,” she warned. “You have an assignment before you, so see it done.”  
  
“I promised Thanos a victory,” Loki rolled his shoulders with an ease bellied by the stiff set of his limbs. “One subdued Earth and an Infinity Stone, coming right up. I know what happens to those who break word with the Titan – trust  _that,_  at least, if you fail to trust me.”  
  
His words said one thing, but she thought she heard another meaning entirely. Gamora looked down at the flute in her hands, and remembered its song. (Deep,  _deep_  down, that long-sleeping ember threatened to spark for flame.)  
  
“I will make my stand,” Loki whispered, more to himself than to her. “See that you do too, Gamora of Zen-Whoberi.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Loki is admittedly more in character with my _All Our Winters to Pass_!Loki than canon now, buy eh, I couldn't resist! So, here we are.


	5. for the fallen (Gamora/Peter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a companion ficlet to the last post in chapter four. :)

The lights from Yondu’s funeral display seemed to glitter amongst the stars even long after the last Ravager ship finally winked from view. They themselves drifted aimlessly in space, not immediately turning one way or another for a course. The last few days had seen much for their small band; now, they’d fill their lungs, and try their best to heal.  
  
Gamora didn’t particularly mind taking a moment to breathe. Nebula, after all, could pack a punch like few of their siblings could, and fighting a power-crazed Celestial _planet_ right after hadn’t helped her wounds in the slightest. Then . . . thinking Peter _gone_ had struck her with more force than anything Ego could've ever hoped to match. Her heart was still stuttering to find its beat in her chest.  
  
_I almost lost him. For a moment, I thought I did._  
  
With a viciousness she’d long since eschewed since shrugging off Thanos’ yoke, she wanted to bare her teeth and hold her blade up to that knowledge. He was _hers,_ after all, and she would fight to hold onto that claim. She’d only just found this hesitant, undefined _thing_ that was her own, and she’d not yet give it up – she'd not let go of him, or  any of them, for that matter. She refused.  
  
So, Gamora stayed as a silent sentinel in the night, even long after the battle had passed. She didn’t trust what dreams would come if she tried to close her eyes, anyway, and only somewhat grudgingly she allowed herself to admit that she was waiting up for Peter. He’d gone into Yondu’s cabin a few hours ago and had yet to come out. While Gamora may have understood having an _uber-powerful-homicidal-maniac_ as a father, and she still remembered mourning her _true_ parents, she’d since had time and distance to process both. Peter, however, had not. His wounds were all too fresh. They required time and distance to heal.  
  
Sitting at the helm of the ship and watching the stars, she took out her silver flute while she waited. Usually, the instrument stayed carefully hidden away with her scant few possessions - especially from the likes of _this_ crew. She hadn’t played the flute since snatching it from Loki - and there she spared a thought for the lying little _zorch’ri-uhn_ who’d completely botched conquering the Earth and whose incompetence had seen the Tessaract safely locked away on Asgard, instead. If she had a drink in hand, she’d toast his name. And, since his quiet, subtle challenge, knowing what she’d done to ensure that both the Soul Gem and the Stone of Power were safely away from the reach of _Father_ . . . well, she knew no regret. That was three empty spaces on the Gauntlet now – four, if she’d heard true about the Reality Stone, and empty she’d have them remain.  
  
And, what was more than that . . . she finally, _finally_ felt worthy enough to raise the flute to her mouth. She blew out a first, feathery breath. Softly then – still rusty with only the remembered reflexes of her childhood – she began to play.  
  
“And to think that when we met you didn’t even know how to dance.”  
  
Her song faltered, and the flute fell from her mouth. “Peter,” his name was an exhale as she turned. No matter that he leaned against the bulkhead with his arms lazily crossed, apparently without a care in the world, the grim set of his expression gave him away. His eyes were still red, and dark shapes of color bloomed beneath his gaze like bruises. He’d been crying, she knew with a pang. _How are you?_ she wanted to ask – a fool’s question, but one that burned to be asked, even so. _What do you need of me? How do I share and lift your grief? What can I do to speak this unspoken thing aloud?_  
  
But her clumsy tongue said nothing as Peter flopped down into the chair next to hers. He held his forehead in his hands with a sigh. “I liked it, what you were playing,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and gesturing. “You don’t have to stop for me.”  
  
“I . . . on Zen-Whoberi we played mourning songs for the dead,” she found her own voice tight to share. An explanation seemed fitting, then. “I don’t remember the dirges of passing . . . not in full, anyway. Mostly, I was making it up as I went.” His head quirked towards her, and no matter that she couldn’t see his eyes she suddenly had the sense that Peter was watching her very, very closely. She’d never observed the last rites for her people, she thought then with a pang. Shame had always held those songs in as she was instead raised and molded to serve their destroyer as a weapon in his hands. She’d called her parents' murderer _Father_ and even tried to love him as such _,_ the knowledge tugged on her heart and weighed down her lungs.  
  
“Songs for the fallen? Yondu would’ve hated that,” finally, Peter scraped out a chuckle. “Or so he’d say, anyway. But then, he always could carry a tune.” He didn’t mention his mother then, or Ego and who his father _could have_ been, but he didn’t have to.  
  
Instead, he only hesitated for a moment before turning in his chair and opening his arms. The motion was oddly shy, bereft of all the surefire teasing and zipping innuendo his flirting normally bore. This, she felt, was not some cocky part of an ongoing mating dance. It was vulnerability, instead - vulnerability and invitation. It was an invitation, something deep inside of her then knew with a whisper, that she wanted – _needed,_ even – to accept.  
  
So, she rose to her feet, and let only a heartbeat pass before joining him in his seat. She settled her legs across his lap, and felt as his arms rose to cradle her. He was very warm underneath her – a Terran quirk or a Celestial one, she knew not. She could hear his heartbeat, and as she breathed in his scent something deep within her own heart twisted. For a moment she simply closed her eyes and allowed herself to be held. She felt him swallow, long and slow, and hoped that in a similar sense, he drew comfort from her presence too.  
  
Then, she lifted the flute to her mouth once more, and started to play.


	6. the divide we keep (Natasha & Steve & Tony)

The news managed to make the headlines, even in the rural dairy village of North Ireland currently granting them refuge. The town had only one street, which boasted the district’s mail office, general store, and pub. But that was where an old contact of Fury’s had settled down to live out his retirement, and the rolling green hills of the countryside were certainly easy on the eyes (and soul) while they waited to make their drop, and so, there they were.  
  
And there, in the town’s single newsstand was a copy of the Belfast Telegraph. That day's front page currently boasted: _America’s Wealthiest Bachelor Officially Taken!_ printed above a massive photo of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. The couple was looking at each other instead of the cameras, each lost in a world of their own as they shared wide, beaming grins. Their entwined hands were triumphantly lifted to better show off Pepper’s engagement ring - a dazzling beautiful diamond, even when captured on black and white newsprint. It was a stunning ring, one that would eventually match the classic elegance of Maria Stark's wedding band.  
  
Natasha loosed a low whistle, even as she paid the vendor. “Stark has nice taste,” she commented, covertly glancing up from underneath her lashes to observe Steve’s reaction. “But that’s to no one’s surprise, really.”  
  
She tilted the paper towards Steve, who only glanced at the photo before turning away. But his jaw clenched, and the casual gesture of him hooking his hands in his jean pockets was not so casual for how she knew he ran the thumb of his right hand on the burner cellphone he kept there. The plastic casing was already worn from a thousand such gestures, even if the phone had yet to ring over the months.  
  
“I’m glad they were able to work it out,” she allowed herself to comment. _I’m glad he’s not alone,_ she felt the words bubble up before swallowing them away. Frustration welled in her throat like a stone – after all, she had tried so hard to hold onto the team _(family)_ she’d chosen for herself with both hands, only to lose them all in the end, each in their own way. Her own jaw squared; stonily, she stared at the paper without truly focusing on a thing.  
  
“He’s been carrying that ring around for ten years, apparently,” Steve looked down to say – more to himself than to her. His broad shoulders were hunched; for a moment his throat worked without making a sound. “Pepper deserves to be made an honest woman.”  
  
“Pepper _deserves_ to be made a saint,” Natasha quipped, but the words came out hollow and forced. She closed her eyes, and breathed out through her nose. Once, and then twice. “C’mon, Cap,” she made an impulse decision, “I’m buying you a stout.” Or two. “To celebrate, obviously. We can raise a glass to the _Starks_.” Alright then – maybe three, tops.  
  
“I don’t need a drink,” Steve frowned. “It doesn’t affect me anyway.” That, he reminded her almost wistfully.  
  
“But _I_ need a drink,” was her answer to that. “Pepper Potts has the most excellent taste in shoes I’ve ever met in another woman, and I know what I’m missing out on with not being in this wedding.” It was more than the shoes, of course, but that was all she could bring herself to say. She'd never been in a wedding before. She'd never had a friend to see married, even. “You . . . I know you would’ve cleaned up nicely.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve rolled his shoulders. “I knew what I was giving up, protecting Bucky.” _What I gave up, choosing one friend over another,_ she heard the unspoken – the weight of the Accords was only transitory in the end, after all. Or, rather, it could have been, if the put their heads together to honestly solve the problem with their words instead of their fists. “I made my choices, and I don’t regret them.”  
  
But it _did_ matter, and it still _could_ matter. Frustrated, she held her tongue and swallowed her words. That, only time would allow her to say, and that time had clearly yet to pass. So, until then, she tucked the paper under her arm – carefully so, she wanted to save the picture. “I know. You couldn’t have done anything but what you did,” she whispered. She stood close enough to him so that the side of her arm brushed his own. “But still . . . I miss them too.”  
  
To that, there wasn’t anything Steve could say; not then, not yet. He only nodded once, slightly. When he looked up, his eyes were very clear, and very blue. “Alright then,” he forced a smile, and pushed on ahead. “About that drink.”


	7. save the date (Tony/Pepper)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ficlet is a companion piece to the last. :)

Pepper Potts would have been lying if she said that she didn’t already have a dozen ideas in mind for her wedding. What had started as a vague idea for years – always to some nameless figure, and always after she _achieved this_ or made it to _this next milestone,_ had lately taken shape as something tangible and just within her reach. Even when she’d held herself away _(you need Iron Man more than you need me, Tony - don't pretend otherwise)_ , the vague groom of her formative years had developed an identity, and wistfully, without the permission of her higher logic, her dreams had filled in the details of her ideal wedding with one man in mind.  
  
But she wasn’t dreaming as she planned her wedding now. After years of dancing around each other – and then years more spent figuring out how to tango with Iron Man and the Avengers and who Tony _used to be_ – this was actually within their reach. Now, all that was left were the details.  
  
. . . even if some of those details were growing into monsters of their own. Such as the guest list, and the seating chart. And, most importantly, whether or not she was going to settle on Vera Wang or Zuhair Murad for her gown. Both designers had offered such divine sketches, and she wanted them both.  
  
_Natasha would know, I’ll just ask_ – it was still instinct to turn to her right and expect the other woman to be there, looking over her shoulder with that little quirk to her mouth that said that she already had all the answers in mind and was just waiting to share. Pepper felt a pang bite through her; they’d lost the kids in the divorce, she reminded herself. She'd have to figure this out on her own.  
  
But, first things first.  
  
_A date._ Picking a date should have been the easiest part. If they could figure that out, at the very least, everything else could begin falling into place.  
  
They just couldn’t seem to settle even that one simple detail.  
  
“I don’t know, Pep – don’t you think that’s well, you know, too _soon?_ I don't want to move too fast.”  
  
Too fast to end a ten year courtship? she wanted to raise a brow and return. And that wasn’t even counting however many years she’d spent squashing her completely inappropriate crush on her boss beforehand. If she asked her mother, she knew that the elder Mrs. Potts would have the time she’d _wasted_ without a husband or children tallied down to the day. Tightly, she gripped her stylus.  
  
“Sure,” she dryly returned, “eight months from now is too . . . _soon.”_  
  
She knew he heard her tone – she’d been certain to make sure that her raised brow was _clearly_ audible, seeing as how Tony had yet to look up from where he sat on the opposite side of her desk. He was lazily sprawled back in the chair and had his feet propped up; restlessly, he tossed one of her glass knick-knacks from one hand to the other. That, she wanted to sigh, had been a gift from Thor, chosen by Queen Frigga herself for the _lady of the tower_. It was honest to goodness _Elvish spun light,_ if she’d understood him correctly. And for that, every part of her teenage years spent reading Tolkien in her grandparents' attic had just soared.  
  
But she trusted Tony – in more ways than one. So, she waited, and didn't ask him to put the globe down.  
  
“You don’t want a summer wedding," Tony made a face. "It’s too clichéd, right?”  
  
“I can make any season fit.” That was a challenge she was more than ready for. “Just give me one to work with, and we can go from there.”  
  
“Spring, then?”  
  
“Tony, that’d be _less_ than eight months.”  
  
“Not if it's the _next_ spring.” He paused his restless movements, and clapped the orb between his palms. Carefully, he darted a glance her way.  
  
Pepper pursed her mouth, and sat back in her chair. She put her stylus down, the calendar on her StarkPad then pushed to the back of her mind and forgotten. “Tony?” she gentled her tone. “What’s going on? Really, now.”  
  
He stared at the globe of spun light, thoughtfully tilting the glass this way and that so that the colors bloomed. “I just want to make sure that all our guests can make it, that’s all," he muttered. "You know me – always being thoughtful. Thoughtful with a capitol T.”  
  
_All_ of their guests, it took a moment for her to understand . . . all of their guests, from wherever they were. Something deep inside her heart clenched as she understood what he wanted. For a moment it was hard to breathe.  
  
Pepper sat back and couldn’t keep a smile from slipping over her mouth if she tried. Her gaze softened. “Well . . . maybe I do want a summer wedding, when I think about it. Cliché and all.”  
  
Tony opened his mouth, and closed it, so she added, “The _next_ summer, of course. Should that be enough time for _everyone_ to save the date?”  
  
“It should be . . . if I work on it,” Tony said. He put the orb back on her desk, and finally met her eyes. “That’s a long engagement, I know.” But she could hear the gratitude in his voice, and that sealed it for her. He knew how much this meant to her, just as she knew how much this meant to _him._ They could meet in the middle. “No doubt your mother will have something to say.”  
  
“My answer will be the same as it's always been.” She reached across her desk, and took his restless hands in her own. “Some things are worth waiting for.”  
  
And really, it was more than worth it for the way he was looking at her – like she was something greater than what even _his_ mind could wrap around. And, in the end, that was what this was all for - for _both_ of them. “So,” Tony found a grin to gesture to the wedding paraphernalia spread across her desk. “Speaking of the devil, does your mother really have to come? I don’t trust her not to stay silent during the _speak now or forever hold your peace_ \- ”  
  
“ - if Mr. Parker is going to be our ring bearer and if you _insist_ on entering the reception hall to AC DC, then yes. My mother is coming.” That, quite simply, was her answer to _that_.  
  
“I'll get you both dresses - Wang and Zuhair," Tony still didn't give up. "C'mon, Pep, be greedy - let me bribe you. You're the gluttonous CEO of a Fortune 500 company, after all. It's in your job description.”  
  
"You're buying me both dresses anyway," Pepper put her nose in the air to say. "You're getting your _summertime wedding,_ after all, so it's only fair."  
  
Tony made a face. "Alright - I'm trapped. I'll surrender with grace." He stalwartly squared his shoulders. "Your mother can come."  
  
But his smile was soft, and he turned his fingers so that he could run his thumbs over the back of her hands. Gently, he squeezed.  
  
"And . . . thank-you, Pepper." That time, he was able to meet her eyes. "I don't want it to matter so much to me, but it does. It wouldn't feel right otherwise."  
  
That, she more than understood. "I miss them too . . . all of them," she whispered. It was more than they'd said on the subject in months. For the time being, it would continue being all they would say.  
  
Sharply, Tony nodded and then drew his hands away. He took in a deep breath, "Alright then," he regrouped. His eyes were sharp to stare down the sea of catalogues spread across her desk. "Now that the date's figured out, we can go from there."  
  
And, wistfully, they began to plan.


End file.
